Zanpaktou Tales
by torihito
Summary: You know the captains, the lieutenants, even the traitors and protagonists. But what about their other halves? Who really is Haineko, Senbonzakura, even Kyoka Suigetsu? Read on and find out! Individual chapters vary, rated K for now, may change. SPOILERS for anyone who is not caught up in the manga.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey y'all. I've been reading a lot of Bleach fanfic recently, and I stumbled across a few told from the POV of characters other than Ichigo. Of course, these fics involve said characters talking with their zanpaktou, and it got me thinking. There are only three canon zanpaktou appearances (no the Rebellion arc does not count!) which are Zabimaru, Hyorinmaru and of course Zangetsu. So then I thought, how do the other zanpaktou spirits look and act? And thus, this fic was born! It's a collection of one-shots from different periods of time, and I'm planning on eventually doing one for each major character outside of the three mentioned above (sorry Ichigo/Hitsugaya fans). So let's begin with the one that I absolutely cannot wait to write. Enjoy!**

**Oh, and also, MAJOR spoilers for anyone who isn't up to date in the manga. Just seems fair to warn ya.**

"people speak"

"**zanpaktou speak"**

**KENPACHI and NOZARASHI**

Set during Kenpachis duel with Ichigo, Rescue Rukia arc.

The world was bright, red-tinted light filtering down from a blood-red sun. The sky was bathed crimson as well, and the walls of the great pit were seemingly made of clay, but were harder than iron. Dust covered everything, for there was no wind to stir it up despite the open air. The air itself was dry, but then when wasn't it? It wasn't exactly blazing hot out, but it was still uncomfortable. Not that it mattered to the man running across the dusty floor. It was apparent that he had once looked quite handsome, a chiseled jaw, tall and broad build, strong muscles covering every inch of him. His bronze skin made it look like he had been carved from stone, but the scars covering his torso and face revealed that he was indeed flesh. His pitch black hair was long for a man, reaching slightly past his shoulders in length. It was wild and frayed, sweat sticking it to his scalp and every direction at once. He wore nothing except a simple white cloth wrapped around his waist and thighs in order to make himself decent. It too was frayed and stained with sweat and dirt.

The man tore across the pit, kicking up small clouds of dust. There was no rhyme or reason to his movement, as he went forward and back, side-stepped right and spun around, nearly toppling over. One would be forgiven for assuming the man was drunk, if it were not for his eyes. They were blank white, no pupil or iris, and his slack mouth was leaking drool and spittle. He was mad, plain and simple.

The man spun around once again when he found sure footing, charging straight forward at an incredible speed. His destination, if he even had one, appeared to be the stone archway that was the only entrance and exit to the pit. It was covered completely by thick black bars, but the man paid them no notice. He flung himself head-first into them, crashing himself again and again into the uncaring metal. His fingers scrambled across the rods, trying desperately to grab onto them, but not knowing how. The man reared his head back and howled in frustration, a savage, animal sound. One last time he slammed against the bars, this time actually splitting his head open. The wound didn't seem to bother the man, but he still backed away unsteadily, blank eyes staring at the unflinching bars warily.

He had not always been like this, and on the rare occasions that he regained some semblance of his sanity, he remembered who he was and why he was this way. Those moments only came when HE slept, or on the rarer occasions HE felt something other than bloodlust and a craving for battle. The man in the pit stumbled back to the center, apparently done with his escape attempt. He slumped down to his knees and stared at the sand. Suddenly, a small wind picked up and the dust shifted. If the man noticed this, he did not give a sign. The dust moved and flowed, painting an ever-growing picture before him. There was a man in the picture, no, a boy. He was barely getting into his full growth, but he wielded a sword almost as large as he was, and with surprising ease.

The boy was running, frantically trying to get away. The man in the pit simply stared, uncaring. He would die, like all the rest, and the man would still be here, and HE would still be there, and this unending torment would never _cease_!

Another breeze and another figure appeared in the sand. There was no doubt that this one was a man, standing far taller than the boy. The boy stopped running and turned, gripping his giant sword unsteadily. The man in the pit stirred, his empty eyes seemingly latching onto the tall figure in the sand. In the figures hand was a sword, not large and thick like the boys, but thin, long, and broken in places. The man in the pit growled deeply at the sight of it, and struck out violently at the dirt before him. His fists destroyed the pictures, but as they had done before, the wind picked up and the pictures returned, despite his obvious protests.

Growling again in defeat, the man in the pit stayed down in the dirt, watching the battle between the two figures intently. As he had predicted, the boy was no match for the tall man, and after a short clashing of blades, the battle was over. The tall man had stabbed _through_ the boys sword and into his heart. Slowly drawing the rough blade out, the tall man seemingly shrugged and turned away, leaving the boy to die.

The man in the pit made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whine. Despite his earlier musings, fragmented and muddled as they were, predicting this outcome some small quiet part of him had wanted the boy to win. As much as it felt right for the tall man to win, he didn't _want_ him to, not like this.

The wind picked up again, drawing the man in the pits attention back to the figures in the sand. The boy wasn't dead, and in fact had _gotten up_. The man in the pit stared, awed at the simple achievement. The boy should be dead, gone, buried like so many others who had faced the tall man. But no, there was something different about the boy. The sand around his figure pulsed and moved, and the man in the pit saw there was a shadow behind the boy. It was hard to see unless you were looking for it, but once caught it was plain to see.

The shadow behind the boy enraged the man in the pit. He spat and screamed and tore at his hair. He started running again, dashing aimlessly around the pit and flinging his limbs at imaginary enemies. Wherever he went he saw the battle before him in the sand. Seeing that it was futile, the man fell to his knees and screamed, an unearthly sound, an inhuman wail of rage and torment.

The winds picked up again, and there was something else on it. The man stopped screaming and listened, his eyes wide. There was a voice in the wind. It was not HIS voice, no, this voice was younger, steadier, calmer. Straining, the man in the pit listened to what the voice was saying, catching only bits and pieces.

"...never lose...fights for himself!" the voice spat. The man in the pit flung himself forward, his face inches from the sand where the two figures were standing off. Then the wind came again and there was another voice, HIS VOICE, and it was much clearer.

"Zangetsu?" the voice asked almost lazily. "Is that the name of your zanpaktou?" This made the man scream again, but it was less inhuman this time. There were sounds, random gibberish, formed by a mouth and mind that long ago threw away any semblance of language. The new voice ignored the mans wails. "Borrowing the power of your sword, fighting along side it? That's bullshit. A zanpaktou is just a tool, simple as that. Saying that you fight with your sword, those're cowards words. It's not something that someone strong like me and you should say!" the voice roared, the wind picking up the pace, almost tearing at the man in the pits hair.

As the man watched, the two figures in the sand gripped their swords and charged towards one another. Everything was being put on the line here, in this last blow. The man screamed in rage again as he saw them close in, tears welling up in his empty eyes and spit flying from his mouth as he bashed his fists against the ground. Then the two figures collided and it was over.

For the longest time, the man in the pit didn't move. Unless you looked closely, you wouldn't even know he was still breathing he was so still. Slowly, the figures in the sand separated, the boy collapsing into a heap, defeated. Still, the man in the pit did not move. Quite suddenly, a large cut ripped its way across his back, and he howled in pain. Blood splattered the dirt, dying it black as he scrambled around, clutching at this new wound. For what seemed like hours, the man screamed and raged, ignoring the dirt, the wind and everything. There was only pain, and only his scream. Slowly, the pain began to leave, at least enough for the crazed man to ignore it. As he lay panting in the dirt, the wind blew by and he again heard a voice. It wasn't the boys and it wasn't HIS. It sounded sweet, and familiar.

"...didn't lose! ...said it...fighting side...with Zangetsu! ...two against one..." the new voice shrilled.

HIS voice replied, ragged and low. "Side by side, with his zanpaktou..." it said, chuckling darkly. "Remember when I named you?"

The man in the pit raged again, remembering who the sweet voice came from. It was the one HE carried, the one who HE spent all HIS time with, the one WHO HE NAMED! She was to be despised, almost as much as HIM, simply for having a name, a name given by HIM. After his fit subsided, the man in the pit knelt down with his head in his hands, and the voices returned on the wind.

"It's been so long...that I forgot...the pain of not having a name" HIS voice said. The man in the pit looked up, wide eyes almost hidden behind his hands. It couldn't be. HE only talked to the ones outside, HE never bothered to say anything to the man in the pit. He must have been mistaken, hearing the wind wrong. But he felt it, deep down in the very core of his soul. The man in the pits most hated being, was talking to him.

"Everyone else had a name their friends called them" the voice said, growing in certainty. "But I didn't. That pain..." HE paused and the man in the pit waited, frozen in place. "You've waited for quite a long time, haven't you?" Slowly, the man in the pit lowered his hands, staring at the sand in front of him. His eyes were no longer blank. Like in his saner moments, they had pupils and color, a bright yellow color like a hawks. He wheezed, his voice hoarse from under use and untold centuries of screaming.

"Hey...I know I'm pretty late in asking...but...can you tell me...your name?" the voice asked.

The man in the pit flung himself to his feet, staring up at the red sky. He opened his mouth wide and croaked, coughing out jumbled letters and sounds. He grabbed his throat, eyes wide and brimming with tears. His voice would not work, no matter how hard he tried. He screamed again in frustration, falling to his knees and crying, sobbing into himself as he curled up. Nothing else got through to him, and the wind stopped blowing. Once again, the man in the pit was alone. For hours he cried, pausing only to breath in and unleash another torrent of sobs. Twice, he passed out and slept before waking and resuming his lamentations. Finally, eventually, he stopped simply because there were no more tears to shed. It was one of the quieter moments in his mind. A quick glance at the dust confirmed that HE was asleep. No, the man shook his head, causing dust to fly out of his unkempt hair. His owner deserves a name now. Zaraki was asleep, and the man in the pit was more lucid than he had been in a very long time.

He was not fixed yet, oh no. The man in the pit had been abused for years, untold centuries. There was no easy way of recovering from something like that. But the man in the pit had never thought of doing things the easy way, even when he was sane. Sitting up, the man looked around, going over what had happened earlier. He had tried to answer, had been so elated to hear his owner, his wielder, talk to him. But the words had not come. The man in the pit had long ago forgotten language, and even then, his own name.

This would not do. If he was to recover, the first step was to remember his name. He could not tell the master if he did not know it himself. Scrunching his eyes up, the man in the pit sat for a long time, reflecting on the past, trying to remember. Finally, he took a deep breath, preparing his worn out tongue and lungs for the arduous process of speech.

"**N...No...za...rashi."** it was all he could get out, and it took all his strength and concentration, but the man in the pit, Nozarashi, smiled darkly to himself. He had remembered his name, and soon, Kenpachi would too.

**Man, that got a little bit darker than I expected. I mean, I wanted to stress how destroyed Kenpachis sword would be, having never actually talked with his wielder. Imagine being in a space all on your own, and the only person you could interact with, even slightly, ignored you. And that this person was a part of you, shared a soul with you. You'd be pretty messed up too.**

**That being said, I'm happy with the way this turned out, and I know I'm going to make more of them, as I said above. When and how often I don't know. I don't think this fic is going to have a regular update time, even if I wanted to do so. So, if you want more, put it on your watch list and be patient. Worst case scenario, it's a one-shot.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Holy hell, I did not think it would take this long! Truth be told, I wrote this fic a while ago and totally forgot to upload it to the site! My bad guys! I'll be sure to post the next one soon to make up for such a long in between. Anyway, here it is!**

**YAMAMOTO and RYUJIN JAKKA**

Setting: a few months after the defeat of Aizen.

It was rare for Yamamoto to be relaxed. He _appeared_ relaxed often enough, either sitting at his desk staring into space or enjoying a cup of tea with his lieutenant. But the truth of the matter was, old man Yamamoto was constantly on the lookout. It wasn't necessarily that he felt he needed to be ready for threats, no. There were plenty of people on watch throughout Seireitei. And it wasn't even that Yamamoto was paranoid, waiting for something to inevitably go wrong. Again, there were plenty of competent people in Seireitei and he probably wouldn't have to lift a finger in any given emergency. The real reason Yamamoto, head of the Gotei 13 and leader of Squad One was always on edge, was because two thousand years of building a habit did not make it easy to break.

This day, however, Yamamoto was very obviously on watch. He stood in his office overlooking the vast majority of Seireitei out the broad window. His eyes were narrowed to slits, but nothing escaped his vision. He saw Rukia Kuchki, the newly promoted lieutenant waving her badge in the face of Renji Abarai. He saw Rangiku Matsumoto drunk in a bar, without her usual group of drinking buddies and a mournful expression on her face. He saw Captain Zaraki, for once not getting in a fight but meditating with his zanpaktou. He saw all of these things, but if he had a comment on them he did not outwardly show it. Unfortunately for the old captain, there was one person who he could never hide anything from.

"**You have something on your mind.**" It wasn't a question, but a statement. There was another being in the room with the Captain-Commander, and "being" was the closest anyone could come to describe it. It was shaped like a man, its body and arms slim but not without muscle. It proved its strength, but promised no lack of speed from the developed muscles. Its skin was colored bronze, and shined brightly off of any light. Its legs and feet were obscured by a white sheet, tied neatly around its waist. In the place of a face there was a bright star, shining brightly. Six smaller stars circled slowly behind it, creating the appearance of a halo. The spirits voice was harsh and deep, reverberating slightly.

"It is uncommon for you to come and visit me like this, Ryujin Jakka." Yamamoto replied. Just as his zanpaktou had not bothered asking an actual question, the old man had also not bothered to give an actual answer.

"**These are uncommon times**" the sun spirit said, striding to stand beside the old man and look out over their shared burden. "**Three traitors within out midst, and yet the mastermind behind it all was slain not by our own hands, but by an outsider**"

Yamamoto showed no sign towards the "hands" comment, his own severed arm itching slightly. Instead, he continued the conversation. "Ichigo Kurosaki had as much to do with what happened as Seireitei. It was as much his right as our own."

"**Indeed**" Ryujin Jakka agreed, crossing its arms over its chest. "**And there lies the problem**"

Yamamoto did not need to ask Ryujin Jakka to explain itself. They had been partners for millennia, and their thoughts were shared as freely as their words. Ryujin Jakka had gone straight for the point, showing a no-nonsense trait that they both shared. Ichigo Kurosaki had defeated the traitorous Aizen, but in doing so had lost any trace of his shinigami abilities. He was now a normal human, like so many others in the Living World. But, the old man thought to himself, that was not the _real_ problem he faced.

"We are still not at our full strength" he said aloud. "Even if we were, we would be no match for someone with the strength of Sousuke Aizen."

Ryujin Jakka nodded solemnly. "**Having to rely on the human was humiliating and shameful**" he growled. "**The Gotei 13 are not nearly as strong as they were. If we are to return to our old strength, we need shinigami like Ichigo Kurosaki**"

Yamamoto sighed, his shoulder slumping slightly. "This is not news to me. It is a conclusion I had come to shortly after Aizen betrayed us. If I were as brutal as I used to be, such insubordination would never have occurred. However, Ichigo Kurosaki is beyond our reach. He is a human, and a young one at that. It could be decades before he passes over into our world, and by then he could have aged well past the point where he could be of any help."

Ryujin Jakka stirred slightly, turning its blazing face towards the old man. "**There are ways around this. Ways to assure that Kurosaki is here and in the prime of his strength.**"

If even possible, Yamamoto's eyes narrowed even further than the slits they were. "I will not allow it!" he barked, rapping his cane on the floor with a sharp _crack_. "Kurosaki is respected by many of the higher officers in the Gotei 13, and friend to even more. His life will run its course _unaltered_. It is the least that we owe him."

There was a long pause after his outburst, during which both master and sword looked out at their world. Finally, Ryujin Jakka spoke up. "**You have changed Eijisai**" it said, causing a slight twitch in the old mans eyebrow, just under his X shaped scar.

"Change is a natural occurrence" was Yamamotos reply. "After two thousand years, is change really that difficult to believe?"

Ryujin Jakka grunted in amusement. "**We are the same being Yamamoto. Are you trying to convince me, or yourself that this change is for the better?**"

Yamamoto didn't answer, and another silence swept over them. It was true, back in the early days of the Gotei 13, Yamamoto would probably have ordered Ichigo killed discreetly, just so they could use his strength. He would not have cared about the boys life, or friends in the human world. He was a strong force to be reckoned with, and had to be brought over to their side. So why had he responded so negatively to Ryujin Jakkas suggestion? Had he truly changed so much? Not even a year ago he would have denied such a change in himself, and given a stiff reprimand to whoever had suggested it.

Again, Ryujin Jakka interrupted his musings. "**If Kurosaki is not an option, than there are certainly others who can be called upon to full the missing holes.**"

Yamamoto immediately knew to whom his zanpaktou was refering to. "Absolutely not! You would have me replace three traitors with three more? And what of the others? Would you have me reinstate them as well, push aside the younger officers in their stations?"

Ryujin Jakka did not relent. "**You call them traitors, but we both know that they are innocent of that charge, and all others. They were victims, nothing more. Not only that, but they are powerful, a power that we can use to get back to our old strength.**"

Yamamoto went to wave a hand in dismissal, but only flailed his severed limb instead. He growled darkly and readjusted his coat. "We do not need to return to our old strength. We have lost none of it!" he spat.

"**You say that, and yet you are the proof"** Ryujin Jakka said, holding up his own arm. It was severed at the elbow, a clean straight cut, like a statues limb that had been removed with a saw. "**We would not have had to sacrifice so much to battle one man in the past."**

Yamamoto refused to speak for a long time, before finally sighing in defeat. Ryujin Jakka had gotten to the root of the problem. Now he himself had to admit it. "I am no longer strong enough to defend Seireitei" he said quietly.

"**Are there not others?**" Ryujin Jakka replied. "**Do you think so lowly of your students? Of Shunsui and Juushiro?**"

"I fear that they are not enough" Yamamoto answered.

"**And you would reject the ones who would fill the balance? The only ones who can even the scales? You yourself had just said that you are not the man you once were. That man was unforgiving, even in the best of circumstances. Have you changed enough to forgive them?**"

Just then, lieutenant Sasakibe Chojiro entered the room, carrying a tray of tea, one eastern and one western for himself. He paused, seeing his captain standing at the wall alone. "is something the matter?" he asked, setting the tea down on the desk.

Yamamoto turned, shaking his head. "No Chojiro. But I have come to a decision regarding our empty captain positions."

Chojiro stiffened slightly, knowing that his captain would respect his wishes to not become a captain, but fearing those very words regardless. "And that is...?"

Yamamoto took his seat behind the desk and took a long drink. "Contact Urahara Kisuke. I have a proposition for him and his so-called Visoreds."

**A/N: Alright guys and gals, remember to rate and review, and I'll have another chapter up asap. Peace =P**


	3. Chapter 3

**SOSUKE AIZEN and KYOUKA SUIGETSU**

Takes place during one of Aizens visits to Los Noches, before the start of the show.

The halls were empty, large white walls stretching as far as the eye could see and then some. There were those, Gin mostly, who would say that Sosuke Aizen had a tendency to overdue things when it came to the architecture of his base, Los Noches. Aizen himself never addressed these claims, but privately he knew they weren't baseless. After all, a man who would claim the very throne of God must have at least some flair for the imposing and Gothic style. That wasn't the only reason, though. Los Noches was formed, carefully sculpted, to look almost exactly like his inner world. It gave him a sense of power, a subconscious boost to his ego. This was _his_ domain, and _he_ was in complete control here.

Kyouka Suigetsu hated Los Noches.

She hated it because it was a reflection of her own world, and besides the blatant irony of that statement, it was a falsehood. As she watched through her masters eyes, she saw the rooms and halls of Los Noches and she knew it was only a cheap imitation of the real thing. She understood why Sosuke had done this, his reasons behind shaping his palace in such a way, but understanding would never be the same as agreeing.

As if he had read her mind, Aizen entered his inner world then. He gazed at the back of his zanpaktou spirit, smiling bemusedly at her appearance. Kyouka Suigetsu was not like any other zanpaktou. Her spirit did not have a form of its own. Instead, she took the form of someone from his memories, always a female. Sometimes she mixed and matched parts of people, which always had interesting results. Today, however, she was one whole person. Unohana Retsu turned around before him, a slightly surprised look on her motherly features.

"**Sosuke. I didn't expect to see you**" she said, her tone soft and caring.

Aizen continued to smile as he walked closer to her. "I might not have if you weren't emitting such strong negative emotions" he explained. "I was curious as to what could cause a part of my soul such distress, here of all places?"

Her form changed, flowing quickly and seamlessly. The tall, kind yet stern features melted into the scowl of a young girl, a lieutenant judging by the armband. The girl had her blonde hair tied back into two pigtails, giving her a larger appearance that didn't do much really, given her short stature. Something tickled the back of Aizens memory, but he brushed it off. Whoever the girl had been, she obviously wasn't important anymore. "**Of course this place would upset me idiot!**" she snapped.

Aizen kept smiling, but the validity of it was lost entirely. The effect this had on Kyouka was astounding. She bit her lip and glanced away, shifting again. This time, she was a different young girl, one clad in academy clothes. Her brown hair was tied back into pigtails as well, though they were much smaller. She rubbed her arm nervously, avoiding Aizens sharp eyes.

"Los Noches distresses you? Interesting. I thought you would feel right at home" he said softly. She shivered at his voice, knowing that there was no warmth in it. "Tell me, what about it do you not like? I am genuinely curious." She risked looking in his direction, finding him staring into the nearby wall. Unlike the pale white walls of Los Noches, the walls in her inner world were polished to a shine. They were still clearly white, but you could see your reflection in them, changed slightly from the cloudiness of the marble.

Kyouka gathered her courage, steeling herself. "**It isn't real**" she said finally. "**It is an illusion, an imperfect version of someplace that means a lot to me**".

If Aizen reacted in any way to this news, he didn't show it, though his smile did regain some of its realism. "Kyouka Suigetsu, upset by an illusion. Imagine that" he joked.

Kyouka morphed once again, now a tall, dark-skinned woman whose flowing purple hair was kept back in a ponytail. She wore a revealing version of the standard shinigami uniform, sleeveless and with the back open. Her golden eyes looked over Aizen like a cat would its prey. "**One who uses illusions knows best the power they can hav**e" she said evenly.

Aizen abandoned his interest in his reflection to look at Kyoukas new form. "That is not a form I would expect from you" he said, a slight edge to his voice.

Now Kyouka was back on the defensive. She knew that Aizen did not like to be reminded of failures, and failing to eliminate Urahara Kisuke was one of his biggest sore spots. Perhaps turning into the mans partner, Yoruichi, was not the best plan. Still, she had a point to make so she pressed on. "**Sosuke, why did you never attempt to attain bankai?**" she asked.

Again, Aizens face did not betray his thoughts, but Kyouka could feel the surprise emanating from him at the sudden question. "Why would I need it?" he asked. "Our shikai is enough to defeat even the might of the Head Captain. We proved that when I applied for captaincy."

Kyouka shook her head in frustration. "**And what did I just say? Those who use illusions know best the power they have. Which is barely any at all!**"

_Now_ she had his attention. "Are you suggesting that our power isn't enough?" he asked,

"**I am suggesting that while you fool others with your illusions, you do not fall under one yourself**" she replied.

Aizen chuckled at that, any sense of unease washed away. "Is that what this is about? You think I have fallen under some kind of illusion?"

Kyouka sighed, turning once again into the form of the academy girl. "**I do not think it, I **_**know**_** it**" she replied. "**You've manipulated the people around you for centuries now. Everyone from your enemies to your so-called allies. There isn't a single person untouched by your illusions. Except for me**."

"I notice you left me out of your exception" Aizen replied frostily. "That's the second time you've said I'm under my own spell. Is there something you'd like to tell me Kyouka Suigetsu?" His tone was dangerous now, and Kyouka almost backed down. But she knew that he still needed her power, and the thought that that was the only thing preventing him from experimenting on her like so many others frightened Kyouka beyond belief. _**What kind of person would see a part of his own soul as nothing but a tool?**_

Kyouka took a deep breath and stepped towards Aizen, looking him right in the face. She transformed again, purposely this time. Now stood before the lord of Hueco Mundo was an extremely attractive young woman. She had strawberry blonde hair that cascaded down her back, and piercing blue eyes. Her beauty was somewhat marred by the ratty clothes she wore, obviously someone from the Rukongai. She locked eyes with Sosuke, choosing her words carefully.

"**The fatal flaw in every plan is assuming you know more than your enemy**."

**AN: Oh boy. I'm gonna be honest here. This one had, like, four or five rewrites before I got it down. I'm still not entirely sure about it. I wanted to stress that Kyouka Suigetsu might not support Aizen in his quest. I also believe that he never reached bankai. He seems like the kind of person who would use his shikai ability to sneak through the captain exam. Anyway, I hope you guys like this. Remember to review, its what keeps me going. Peace =P**


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